


can I have this chance to be your little romance?

by echoes_of_realities



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/F, Fluff, I should be working on assignments but who wants to do that?, One Shot, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 01:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13916211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoes_of_realities/pseuds/echoes_of_realities
Summary: “Medium white chocolate mocha?” Brittany asks knowingly.The girl laughs in surprise and glances down at her hands briefly, fiddling with her wallet. “Am I that easy to peg already?"“You get it almost everyday,” Brittany explains with a grin, and then she taps the side of her head with her index finger, “and I just have an awesome memory when it comes to pretty girls.” Brittany blinks when she realizes what just came out of her mouth and feels a blush rise across her cheeks and to her ears.Coffee Shop AU: Brittany kind of has this teeny-tiny ginormous crush on the devastatingly pretty girl who comes in to study every night during her closing shift, but she’s pretty sure that it’s completely okay because she’s almost certain that the devastatingly pretty girl also has a teeny-tiny ginormous crush on her too. Probably. She thinks. Of course, neither of them are actually going to do anything about it because, what, are you insane?





	can I have this chance to be your little romance?

**Author's Note:**

> A coffee shop au because they’re cute and also I don’t want to work on the seven assignments I have due next week so I finished and edited this instead.
> 
> Title from “Little Romance” by Ingrid Michaelson

“Hey, Britt, it’s your girl again.”

Heat spreads across Brittany’s cheeks, like she was standing in front of a campfire for too long and had just turned away, only realizing how warm her face was away from its flames. She turns around to glare at Mercedes, automatically responding with her usual answer of “She’s not my girl, ‘Cedes,” even while her eyes wander to the door.

The girl is rushing into the café in a swirl of cold air and snowflakes, silhouetted against the late evening darkness, swiftly pulling the door closed behind her to stop the winter wind from sweeping into the café. She’s shivering from the cold; her dark hair is tucked into her hat and the lower half of her face is buried in her usual burgundy scarf, shoulders up by her ears and mittened hands twisting around the strap of the messenger bag slung across her chest. Her nose and cheeks are pink from the bitter wind, her glasses instantly fogging up in the blasting heat from the café. She stomps her feet on the mat, shaking off snow and rubbing the wet bottoms across the already disgustingly soaked mat from the general traffic of the day, wiping sand and salt from the sidewalks off of her boots and grimacing when, even after all that, she still trails dark puddles of muddy snow across the tiled floor as she heads for the back corner table where her blonde friend’s school work is already spread across the surface.

Brittany’s so distracted that she doesn’t realize she’s been letting the cappuccino she’s making run over. She mumbles a curse and desperately starts trying to catch the excess liquid with the towel she keeps over her shoulder when she hears Mercedes start to laugh at her. “Oh, shut it,” she grumbles, flicking the partially soaked towel at Mercedes’ back as she passes, “as if you’re any better when _Sam_ shows up in the morning.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mercedes retorts in a voice that fails to hide the fact like she knows _exactly_ what Brittany’s talking about.

Brittany sticks her tongue out at Mercedes in response and freezes when she hears a giggle behind her. Turning slowly, she sees the girl standing at the cash register, grinning softly. She’s escaped the confines of her winter jacket and scarf and hat, but she still looks like she’s freezing. Her cheeks are still pink from the cold and her glasses are still fogged up, pushed up her head and keeping dark hair from falling over even darker eyes. Her thick sweater is tugged down to partially cover her hands as she fiddles with her wallet. 

Brittany manages to not swallow her tongue and smiles back at the girl, and she something deep inside her trembles when dark eyes brighten and sparkle in the poor lighting of the café. “You’ve got register,” Mercedes says from Brittany’s elbow, grinning wickedly, “I’ll finish this order up.”

Brittany shoots Mercedes a slightly pleading, desperate glare and throws her towel back over her shoulder, approaching the girl and feeling something bubbly curl in her stomach with every step she takes. “Hi! What can I get you?” Brittany greets brightly, and she ignores the feel of Mercedes’ knowing look. (She also ignores the heat prickling under her skin again, but she’s gotten really good at ignoring that whenever the girl enters the café to study, which has been, like, every night for almost two weeks; Brittany’s a pro at ignoring her blush by now. It’s the whole _not making a fool of herself_ that she’s still working on.)

The girl hums and leans back on her heels to stare up at the menu above her head, squinting slightly to read her options, her glasses slowly defogging in her hair. “I’m not sure today.”

Brittany smiles, her finger hovering above the cash register. (She totally doesn’t stare at the expanse of skin along the girl’s neck as she stretches it back; definitely not, never would she ever be distracted by something so soft-looking and kissable as that.) “Medium white chocolate mocha?” Brittany asks knowingly.

The girl laughs in surprise and glances down at her hands briefly, fiddling with her wallet. “Am I that easy to peg already?”

“You get it almost everyday,” Brittany explains with a grin, and then she taps the side of her head with her index finger, “and I just have an awesome memory when it comes to pretty girls.” Brittany blinks when she realizes what just came out of her mouth and feels a blush rise across her cheeks and to her ears. There’s something about the girl in front of her that completely erases whatever brain-to-mouth filter she usually has, and the worst part is that Brittany tries so hard to seem cool around the girl and, you know, control her brain-to-mouth filter, but she still manages to embarrass herself every single night like clockwork. “I— Uh— I mean—”

“You think I’m pretty?” the girl blurts out, and then she gets this breathless, too bright look, twisting her fingers around her wallet and staring at Brittany, brown eyes deep and dark and open. 

Brittany swallows thickly and thanks whatever coffee gods that watch over this café that the only people in the store are the girl’s friend hunched over a table in the corner, a businessman too busy half-yelling on his phone to really realize he’s spilling hot coffee over his hand, two guys tucked into the other corner too engrossed in their books to look up, and Mercedes, who went into the back for some more straws, which thankfully means she can’t embarrass Brittany anymore than Brittany already has embarrassed herself. Brittany plays with the towel over her shoulder and stares at the counter between them. “Um, yeah?” Brittany mumbles shyly, chancing a glance up at the girl and losing her own breath just a little bit at the girl’s expression.

A soft, bashful smile is spreading across the girl’s face and she glances down at her toes before glancing up at Brittany from under her eyelashes. “Thanks, Brittany.”

Brittany’s mouth drops open in surprise and the girl relaxes and giggles at her. She points to the spot where Brittany’s neck strap meets the front of her apron, right where her name tag is pinned, and Brittany feels heat sprawl under her skin for the umpteenth time tonight. “Oh, right,” Brittany mumbles, eyes caught on the smile that spreads across the girl’s face as she giggles. Brittany pouts, her upper lip curling in and her bottom sticking out, and watches as the girl gets that breathless look again, her eyes wide and deep. “Well that’s not fair,” Brittany teases, a rush of courage spreading through her limbs at the pink darkening in the girl’s cheeks, though this time it has nothing to do with the winter wind outside, “I don’t know your name and you know mine.”

The girl’s smile spreads, soft and timid and wide, her eyes darting between Brittany’s own. “Santana,” she offers, and Brittany melts.

“Santana,” she repeats softly, pleased when Santana’s nose crinkles and her eyes scrunch up in the most genuine smile Brittany’s seen on another person. “Well, Santana, do you want any flavour shots or sprinkles for your medium white chocolate mocha?”

Santana giggles and there’s these dimple that creases her cheeks that make Brittany’s insides melt into some combination of gooey-marshmallow-stickiness and fluttering butterflies, and her returning smile is so much goofier than it’s probably ever been and there is no possible way for her to reign it in. “Surprise me,” Santana suggests, and Brittany’s heart thumps loud against her sternum, rooting and blossoming into liquid sunlight.

“Okay,” Brittany agrees, quickly tapping her order into the register. “Three seventy-five.”

Santana pushes her finally defogged glasses back down onto her face and picks through the change pocket of her wallet, a small furrow between her brows as she pulls out the correct change and hands three dollar bills to Brittany. Her fingers brush Brittany’s as she passes the money over and a small jolt of warmth tingles down Brittany’s fingers and through her hand and up her arm at the contact. Santana smiles shyly at her and moves to go stand by the other counter as Brittany stares at her hand for a moment, dumbfounded, before blinking and rushing to finish ringing in Santana’s order. 

Brittany quickly grabs a medium coffee cup and a thick black marker, scrawling Santana’s name across the cup. She hesitates for a moment, glancing up at Santana, before drawing a smiley face after her name. She turns and pumps the white chocolate sauce into the bottom of the cup, instinctively going through the motions of making Santana’s order while she pretends she’s not sneaking glances at Santana. Out of the corner of her eye, Brittany watches Santana seemingly have a silent conversation with her friend across the café, one that involves lots of wide-eyed glaring and wringing of her hands. Brittany hums along to the music playing over the speakers, dancing a little bit around the coffee machines, until she catches Mercedes gesturing wildly at Santana from the back. Brittany’s eyes go wide and she turns so that she can’t see her coworker’s encouraging arm waving at Santana and quickly finishes off the mocha with whipped cream, sprinkling some spices on the top, and walking to the counter. “One surprise white chocolate mocha,” she calls teasingly. Santana grins at her and, in a sudden burst of courage, she winks at Santana, fully enjoying the way dark eyes open wide in surprise before what Brittany is _sure_ is a blush spreads across full cheeks.

“Thanks,” Santana mumbles, bashful and smiling again, talking her drink from Brittany’s outstretched hand. She takes a sip, darting a tongue out to lick the whipped cream sticking to her upper lip with a hum of pleased surprise. (Brittany can totally breathe, she just needs to remind her lungs how to do it a couple times.) “Cinnamon?” she wonders aloud.

“Yeah,” Brittany confirms, nodding far too many times, “do you like it? My mom always put cinnamon in my hot chocolate when I was younger but I’ve actually never tried it with white chocolate, or in a mocha. And definitely not a white chocolate mocha. Oh god, it’s awful isn’t it?” Brittany rambles, eyes wide and scuffing the toe of her shoe on the ground in worry.

Santana smiles softly, something smilier to awe but not quite swimming in her dark eyes. “It’s perfect, Brittany,” she assures.

Brittany relaxes, the tension leaving her shoulders as she grins at Santana. “Good,” she murmurs, and then catches the angry businessman making his way to the register out of the corner of her eye. She sighs in annoyance and shoots Santana an eye roll, eliciting a giggle and a wave of her hand as she heads back towards her friend in the back corner.

The angry businessman demands another coffee because his cup “leaked” all over his hand, and Brittany shrinks away from him, playing with the end of the towel over her shoulder and wishing she could disappear. Mercedes appears by her elbow out of seemingly nowhere, glaring at the businessman with her arms crossed tightly over her apron, calmly nudging Brittany away from the register and towards the back with an understanding hand. Brittany manages a small, grateful smile at her friend and slinks away, that uncomfortable sticky feeling clawing at the inside of her stomach as she hides in the back. She can hear the businessman getting more agitated as he argues, Mercedes responding in a calm voice. Brittany glances around the back, searching for the clipboard with the checklist of ingredients and supplies on it so she can start on inventory for the order they have to place that night. 

After a while, she zones out from listening the argument out front, humming along to the Motown playing faintly over the radio and dancing around the shelves of coffee beans and paper cups. The ding of the the bell above the front door of the café and the sudden silence at the front draw Brittany out of her self-absorption in trying to write decipherable words while also dancing, and she warily wanders to the front. Mercedes is turned away from the register, unloading the dishwasher and humming. 

“Where’d he go?”

Mercedes glances up and gives Brittany a sly grin. “He was being belligerent and your girl kindly escorted him out,” Mercedes explains, placing finger quotes around _escorted_. Brittany glances over at the back table and finds Santana and her friend bent over a laptop, engrossed in their schoolwork. Dark eyes dart up to meet bright blue and hold for a long moment, making something warm flutter in Brittany’s stomach, before they return to her laptop at her friend’s nudging. Brittany blinks and refocuses on Mercedes, who’s staring at her with a smug, knowing look. “She asked about you,” Mercedes continues.

Something deep inside Brittany blooms and fills her and she smiles goofily at Mercedes, ignoring her teasing grin. “She did?” she says, a little awed and a little dumbfounded.

Mercedes’ grin widens. “Yeah, she was _really_ concerned that you were okay after he started yelling at you.”

Brittany hums dreamily as Mercedes laughs at her. “You two are hopeless.” Brittany blinks and tries to refocus on Mercedes instead of glancing at Santana again. (She fails, but it’s okay because Santana just so happened to be glancing at her too.) Mercedes just playfully pokes Brittany in the stomach. “It’s obvious she likes you too. You should ask her out.”

Brittany swallows nervously and scuffs her toe, sneaking another look in Santana’s direction before looking away, wide-eyed and fighting a blush, when she meets Santana’s eyes again. “I can’t do that,” she mumbles.

“Girl, why not?” Mercedes asks, poking her lightly in the shoulder. 

“I dunno,” Brittany mumbles. The bell above the door dings as a tired mother and two shrieking toddlers tumble in the café, and Brittany jumps on the opportunity, scrambling to the cash register before Mercedes can say anything else. By the time Brittany takes the mother’s order over the screams of her darling children, she realizes it’s already half an hour to closing time and she still has to mop the floors. Mercedes gives her a prodding look, so Brittany tosses the towel over her shoulder at her, smacking her right in the face, and quickly fleeing onto the customer area of the café before Mercedes can take her revenge.

She has to pass Santana’s table to get to the storage closet, tucked at the end of a short, dimly lit hallway just past the bathrooms. Santana’s eyes dart up to meet hers as she walks past, and Brittany gives a small smile and a wave, getting a small smile in return before Santana turns back to her friend. The sound of the grinder screeches across the café from the front as Brittany slips into the hallway, taking a deep breath to try and calm her suddenly pounding heart.

(Santana’s friend is pretty too, Brittany realizes belatedly, not as pretty as Santana is, obviously, because, _wow_ , but Brittany has the sudden, distressed fear that Santana’s friend is actually her _girl_ friend and she stares hopelessly at the cleaning closet before she shakes herself out of the fear. More or less.)

As Mercedes grinds coffee out front, Brittany struggles with the cleaning supplies, attempting to manoeuvre the water bucket in the tiny closet and groaning as the mop handle slips out of its holder on the wall and smacks her in the head. She curses quietly and rubs at her forehead, glaring into the closet as she yanks the mop all the way out and sets it against the wall. It’s not even a closet really, just a door with about a foot and a half of space behind it, the water bucket barely fitting into the sink set against the floor, cleaning supplies and chemicals precariously balanced on the shelf above. Brittany’s, like, pretty sure that it’s a safety hazard, but her manager had somehow carefully misdirected the last safety inspector away from the cleaning closet before he could see it, and so they’re stuck with the dangerously small cubbyhole for at least a couple more months.

The grinder cuts out suddenly, and Brittany inspects her hands, rubbing at a stubborn splotch of caramel syrup sticking to the fleshy part between her thumb and forefinger as she waits for the water bucket to fill with water, making pinkish bubbles bloom from the chemical she had poured in the bottom. The grinder starts up again just as Brittany shuts off the water and carefully lifts the bucket out of the cubbyhole, grabbing the mop from where it’s propped against the wall and kicking the door shut with her foot. She steers the water bucket to the entrance to the rest of the café and shoves the mop into the soapy water, rolling her eyes at herself when she splashes water onto her shoes. She plops the mop on the floor in front of the cleaning closet with a wet squelching sound and starts mopping the hallway.

Santana’s table is just around the short wall, hidden from sight, and she swears she hears Santana’s friend loudly say “Why don’t you just ask her out?” right as the coffee grinder shuts off and Brittany loses her struggle with the mop, the handle striking the ground with surprising loudness in the sudden absence of noise. The handle bounces a couple times and rolls to the entrance to the rest of the café, the mop head stuck between Brittany’s feet and the water bucket. She winces and hopes her cheeks aren’t as pink as they feel as she creeps forwards to retrieve her mop, feeling exposed as she steps into the light and the sightline of Santana and her friend.

Santana is staring at her with wide eyes, flustered and breathless again, before she turns to her friend and smacks her in the shoulder. “Shut it, blabbermouth,” she hisses, eyeing Brittany shyly before staring down at her laptop, still shooting glowering looks at her friend.

Brittany swallows thickly and stares down at the mop in her hands, grinning at the soapy water and hoping that Santana’s friend is talking about what she thinks she’s talking about. She finishes mopping the hallway and starts on the rest of the café, mopping around Santana’s table and trying not to embarrass herself again. She succeeds, more or less, and only drops the mop once more. (The handle is _slippery_ okay? It’s not as if she can feel Santana’s eyes on her back, and it’s definitely not as if it makes something bright flutter in her stomach or her knees weak or her grip on the mop slack or anything.)

She’s just reaching the two guys reading on the other side of the café when Mercedes emerges from behind the counter to go around and tell everyone in the café that they’re closing in ten minutes. The only people left in the café are the guys in front of Brittany, Santana and her friend, and a man who had skulked in about five minutes ago to order a small black coffee and had been hovering over the counter with napkins and lids and spices since. Santana and her friend start packing up their schoolwork, shoving laptops and notebooks and textbooks into their bags until they’re overstuffed. Brittany wheels the mop bucket back to the cleaning closet just as they’re starting to bundle back up into winter clothes. She quickly dumps the water and rinses the bucket, shoving the bucket and mop back in haphazardly and hoping they don’t fall out on Kurt tomorrow morning when he starts his shift. 

She emerges from the hallway just as Santana and her friend are heading for the door. Her friend walks out first, but Santana hesitates for a moment, glancing over her shoulder and brightening when she catches Brittany’s eyes. She gives Brittany a small wave before spinning on her heel and fleeing after her friend. Brittany blinks after her, before smiling at Santana’s retreating back and hoping she doesn’t look too dopey. (This happens practically every night, and it still catches Brittany off-guard in the absolute best way possible.)

Mercedes appears by her side and elbows Brittany in excitement. “Girl!” she squeals, and Brittany lowers her head bashfully, watching as Santana and her friend dart across the street, bundled up and shivering in the cold, with that same bright thing fluttering inside her chest.

 

* * *

 

“You just wanna go so you can see that hot barista again.”

“That’s not it at all,” Santana sputters in a voice that fails to convince Quinn that she isn’t one-hundred percent right. “It’s easy to study in, at least when that asshole businessman isn’t screaming into his phone or at the staff. And there’s fresh, hot coffee constantly. And it’s open late. And it’s close to our apartment. And—”

“There’s a hot barista.”

Santana doesn’t dignify that with a response and shoves her notebook into her bag harder, crumbling the cover a little bit, which just makes her more irritated. “Do you want to go tonight or not?” she snaps, her cheeks going prickly-hot with a blush as she closes her bag.

“Wow, chill out. I’m just teasing.”

Santana growls and shrugs on her jacket, zipping it up with more force than perhaps strictly necessary, throwing her bag over her shoulder. She spins on her heel and shoves her phone in her pocket, storming out of the room without waiting for Quinn, slipping in front of a couple other students and walking away with quick, angry steps.

But Quinn is nothing if not annoyingly persistent, and catches up with Santana barely a room-length down the hall. “C’mon, Santana,” she says as she falls in step, “Really, I meant nothing by it.”

Santana blows out a long breath through clenched teeth, forcing her shoulders to drop and her stride to slow back to normal. “Yeah, sure,” she says shortly, which Quinn knows is as good as she’s going to get.

Quinn studies her for a long moment. “You’re a bitch when you’re defensive.”

Santana lets out a bark of laughter but doesn’t answer past that.

Quinn hums thoughtfully as they dodge a group of students shuffling down the hallway like lost puppies. “You really like her.”

Santana swallows thickly and her fingers twist around the strap of her bag across her chest. Quinn waits patiently, knowing Santana always eventually confesses when she’s not being forced to. Santana takes in a deep breath, her eyes darting around and glaring at a row of first years coming down the hallway at them until they shuffle around to allow people to pass on the other side, eyes wide and terrified as they take in what a frustrated and exhausted third year looks like.

She breathes out shakily and glances at Quinn, silently weighing her options, before finally glancing down and away, eyes on her toes, and giving a tiny nod.

Quinn hums in response, tugging on her mittens as they near the exit closest to their bus stop. “When do you get off work today?”

Santana shrugs and pulls her hood up. “Today’s my day off.”

Quinn pulls on the door and holds it open for Santana, who breathes in sharply at the bitter wind that whips against them. “Want to go to the café earlier then?”

“No,” Santana automatically says, and then her eyes widen and she gets that breathless look Quinn had only ever seen back in their senior year of high school when Santana first came out to her, though now she sees it whenever they’re in the café with a certain blonde barista behind the counter. “I mean, uh, I have some other stuff to do this afternoon. So we can go later like usual.”

Quinn hides her grin in her scarf and eyes Santana as they head to the bus stop just outside of the university. “What stuff?”

Santana glowers at her, a scowl replacing her flustered expression, though she still looks a little breathless, “None of your business.”

Quinn buries further into her scarf to better hide the widening of her smile. “Well since we live together, it kinda is my business.”

“Drop it, Fabray,” Santana threatens.

Quinn hums knowingly. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that a certain blonde barista _only_ works the closing shift, would it?”

“I said drop it,” Santana repeats, and her voice goes low and raspy like it does when she’s serious. 

Quinn just rolls her eyes, a long-suffering, firsthand witness to Santana’s bitchy defensiveness when someone gets too close to the truth. “Oh, come on, Lopez, we both know I’m right.”

Santana just glares angrily at the road until the bus pulls up and doesn’t say anything the entire ride back to their apartment. Quinn just rolls her eyes and waits out Santana’s defensiveness, which lasts just long enough for her to wander out of her room at the smell of Quinn cooking supper in the kitchen.

“Can it, Fabray,” she says by way of greeting.

Quinn just rolls her eyes and dishes some spaghetti onto Santana’s plate. Things go back to normal again, with them sniping half-hearted insults at each other and complaining about the research paper due in a week that neither of them want to start on. Quinn retreats to her room to get started on some readings and hopefully not fall asleep, while Santana does up the dishes, and before she knows it Santana is knocking on her door and asking if she’s ready to go.

The café is only about a five minute walk away, but since it’s the dead of winter they bundle all the way up to try and keep out the cold snap the city’s been experiencing for the last three days. They trudge down the street in sync, barely talking because their faces are buried in their scarves so their lips don’t freeze off. Santana’s always had this bad habit of licking her lips when it’s really cold out, and no matter how much Quinn chides her, or how much Santana herself complains about it, Santana’s never been able to break that habit. So she buries further into her scarf and shrugs her shoulders so they’re up by her ears to try and keep the wind from howling past her scarf and down her jacket. 

Quinn opens the door of the café for Santana and hurries in after her. The blonde barista that has made Santana blush more in the past two weeks than in the whole time Quinn’s known her is standing behind the counter again, her hips wiggling as she dances around to whatever jazzy song is playing over the speakers. Santana stomps into the café to try and rid her boots of the snow and salt.

When the barista glances up and blushes, her eyes wide on Santana with a soft, probably involuntarily, smile spreading across her face, well, Quinn gets a really good idea just then.

 

* * *

 

Quinn’s idea isn’t just good, it’s _brilliant_ by Mercedes’ standards.

It takes a little bit of maneuvering, and some sneaky trips to the back, but Mercedes is pretty sure she’s able to pull it off. Everyone gets pretty good at forging other people’s writing after working at the café for a while, and Mercedes has a pretty good handle on most of her other coworkers. She’s worked with Brittany and Kurt the most and the longest, and since they’re her friends too, she can get their writing style pretty accurate on the curved side of a cup so long as no one looks too closely. The best part, is that whoever is receiving the cup usually hasn’t ever seen their writing before so it doesn’t even really matter all that much to be honest. 

Brittany’s unloading an order in the back, but Mercedes still keeps a careful eye on her as she scrawls _Tomorrow, 2pm. Linden Square._ on the cup in her hand. Quinn is at their usual table, keeping an increasingly frustrated Santana occupied. Mercedes carefully replaces the cup on the stack, turning it so Brittany won’t realize there’s already writing on it when she grabs it for Santana’s order. Quinn throws up her hands, the cue her and Mercedes had agreed upon a couple days ago when the blonde had approached her while Santana was in the bathroom and Brittany was in the back and suggested the brilliant idea of lightly kicking their respective friend’s asses into gear.

As Santana turns to approach the counter, Mercedes slips into the back. “Britt?” she calls, waiting until Brittany bops into her sight, a stack of coffee cups between her hands like an accordion. “Can you watch the front? I gotta run to the bathroom.”

“Sure!” Brittany chirps, stacking the cups in her hands on the shelf beside her and bouncing towards the front after Mercedes. She hears Brittany’s step falter behind her, and the sharp intake of breath as she sees who’s waiting to order, and slips past the counter and heads for the back where the bathrooms are before Brittany can protest. She pulls the note Quinn had handed her yesterday out of her apron pocket and slips it back to Quinn, who smirks and hides it under her laptop, as she passes.

Quinn’s plan is brilliant. Since their friends are obviously enamoured with the other, and since they’re both too dense to realize the other feels exactly the same, and since even if they did realize it they would take _forever_ to actually act on that knowledge, Quinn had suggested they give them a little push. And so their plan is to trick them into asking each other out, or, technically, ask the other out for them. Quinn had forged a note from Santana with the same time, place, and date that Mercedes would write on a cup for Brittany to give to Santana. It had taken a couple days to sort everything out, but Mercedes thought the plan was going brilliantly so far. Especially because, as she exits the bathroom, she sees Santana staring, wide-eyed and hopeful at the cup in her hand. Mercedes knows that there are few people who are worthy of Brittany, but she has the sneaking suspicion that Santana may be one of those people (or, perhaps, even _that_ person; it’s too early to tell, obviously, but Mercedes has a _feeling_ about things like these). Mercedes especially thinks that Santana may be one of those people because she’s never seen another person look so utterly enraptured by something as simple as a cup with black marker scrawled across it. 

Santana walks back to her table in a daze, barely noticing Mercedes as she passes, before slumping into her chair and staring dreamily at the cup in her hands, tracing the letters scrawled on the side with all the care in the world.

Mercedes gives Quinn a thumbs up over Santana’s head as she goes back behind the counter. Now all she had to do was keep Brittany occupied in the back until closing, and to do so she sneakily changes the music to Brittany’s _Jamming Playlist_ , knowing that it would send Brittany into a productive, mostly distracted state, complete with dancing and singing and finishing unpacking the order. 

The rest of the evening goes by quickly, and Mercedes is just finishing mopping when Brittany pokes her head out of the back. “Hey, ‘Cedes? I finished unpacking everything and it’s almost closing time, do you want me to tell everyone?”

Mercedes shrugs coolly, glad that she’s been doing so well in her improv class lately. “I’ve got it, Britt, you can close out the register,” she suggests, knowing it will keep Brittany’s math-brain too busy to focus fully on Santana. Brittany’s eyes dart over to Santana before she shrugs and heads for the register.

Mercedes goes around and tells everyone they’re closing, glad that it’s only a couple of middle-aged women discussing whatever book they’re reading and Santana and Quinn in the café because everyone clears out quickly. Quinn waits until Santana is heading for the door before she heads after her friend, dropping the forged note on the table while Santana’s back is turned and ushering Santana out the door as she catches up. Santana hesitates for a brief moment in the doorway, as she does every night, before she sends Brittany a small wave, blushing and hurrying out the door.

Mercedes straightens some chairs and waits until Brittany, also blushing, has turned back to the register and Santana and Quinn are halfway across the parking lot of the strip-mall the café is attached to. “Hey Britt,” she calls, “I think your girl left something on her table.”

Brittany looks up instantly, just wrapping a rubber band around the stack of fives in her hand. There’s something warm and worried swimming in her eyes as she drops the money back into the register and bounces out from behind the counter, heading for the table at the back that Santana and Quinn always claim. “I hope it’s not anything important,” she wonders aloud. “I could probably catch her if it is,” her voice trails off as she picks up the note and reads it, shaking her head in disbelief as she rereads it, her face open and bright, like she’s lit from within.

“It’s from Santana,” Brittany breathes, her voice full of awe and hope. She glances at the door where Santana’s head is bobbing behind Quinn’s as they cross the street, before she looks back down and reads the note again, a goofy smile spreading across her face at the scrawl across the paper in her hands.

Mercedes hides her grin behind her hand. Quinn’s plan really is brilliant.

 

* * *

 

Or Quinn’s plan _was_ brilliant, except for the fact that she and Mercedes kind of messed up.

Santana is staring down the street as she decides which way to go, a cutout piece of cup clutched tightly in her hand and buried in her pocket. She’s on her way to Linden Square about an hour earlier than she needs to be because she is so jittery and nervous. She had almost bitten Quinn’s head off when she made breakfast ‘too loudly,’ and though Quinn was fairly understanding about the nerves and fear part of this whole thing, she had reached her breaking point too. Which is how Santana finds herself being ushered out of the apartment an hour before she is supposed to meet Brittany, kicking pointlessly at the rocks and salt under her feet as she debates whether or not to just head to the park and wait there for Brittany, before thinking that showing up an hour early was just a hint more desperate than she wanted to be. And, granted she _is_ kind of desperate to meet Brittany at the park because the note kind of sounded like it might be a date, and a date with Brittany is kind of everything she’s ever wanted since she first stumbled into the café and looked up into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, but it’s all about appearances and she can’t let Brittany know how much she wants it to be a date because it would probably be a total turn off.

And so Santana wanders the neighbourhood. Linden Square is only a couple blocks away from the apartment she shares with Quinn, in the opposite direction of the café Brittany works at, and so she heads towards the square that way, turning left on the street right before the park so she can go for a walk to try and calm her nerves. There is this fluttering thing trying to escape her chest, and it’s not something she has ever felt before the night she grumpily stomped into the café in desperate need of a caffeine fix almost three weeks ago and instead found the prettiest person in existence. She had tripped over the mat in front of the door and sighed, resigning herself to face-planting into the filthy ground because that was just how that week had seemed to be going. Or, that’s how her week _had_ been going until hands had caught her securely around her biceps, and her fate of a face-full of wet mat was suddenly halted. She had looked up into what was probably the face of an angel since Santana’s pretty sure that no human could possibly be so pretty, and she knew she was a complete goner right there. Especially when the pink lips had parted to reveal the most gorgeous smile Santana had ever seen in her life. Especially-especially when the only thing that fell out of Santana’s normal cool and collected mouth was “Um, uh, ah—”

It wasn’t really a big deal, falling into the strong arms of the perfect girl by chance, except it kind of _was_. Especially when she had dragged Quinn with her the next evening under the excuse of studying; really all Santana wanted to do was find out if the whole _I_ _can’t actually breathe because my heart beats too fast when she smiles at me_ thing was just a one time experience. (It wasn’t. It definitely, unquestionably, one-hundred precent wasn’t a one time thing.) Quinn had suspected at the time what they were really doing at that particular café, because Quinn was nosey and annoying and probably her best friend, and also because Santana is completely and utterly hopeless when she’s pinning for someone. Santana hadn’t really noticedQuinn’s knowing looks though because every time she glanced up at the cash register and saw Brittany already glancing at her she was pretty sure her heart was about to beat right out of her chest (and probably fly straight to Brittany, the damn thing). And that fluttery thing in her stomach would start up again because the only thing prettier than Brittany doing anything was Brittany blushing and glancing at her feet when she was caught looking at Santana.

And, okay, so maybe Santana is kind of awful when it comes to flirting with pretty girls, or at least pretty girls with glossy blonde hair and summer-sky blue eyes and fading freckles and a smile that makes Santana think she might actually be having a heart attack. And, okay, so maybe it took Santana about a week to be able to form complete sentences around Brittany, and maybe she ordered the same drink every night because once she got up to the counter she forgot that she wanted to try something new because every thought flew out of her brain whenever Brittany smiled at her. 

And, okay, so maybe Santana is a little hopeless when it comes to trying to flirt with Brittany, but she’s mostly sure that Brittany has been trying to flirt back at her, and maybe that makes Santana feel a little bit like she could do anything, and maybe she kind of had been working up the courage to ask Brittany out even if she had to completely stutter her way through the question, and maybe about a million butterflies took flight in her stomach when she saw what Brittany had wrote on her cup. And maybe that’s why she ends up back at the square thirty minutes before she is supposed to meet Brittany because she thinks she might just jitter into another plane of existence from her nerves and, as she’s learned over the past two and a half weeks, she has absolutely _no_ chill when it comes to Brittany.

And so she sits on a bench under a barren tree, the truck gnarled and old, and tries to remember how to breathe as she watches the minutes go by on her phone. Her nose is cold even when she buries it in her scarf, and she licks her lips and instantly regrets it as the cold freezes them, and then grumbles at herself when she immediately does it again. The cold snap had lifted yesterday, and it was now no longer freeze-your-ass-off-cold but just you-probably-need-a-scarf-but-not-too-badly-cold, the vividness of the chill in the air obvious in every inhalation of sharp winter air. People pass her and she tries not to imagine how they are looking at her and probably thinking she doesn’t have a chance with someone as pretty as Brittany, even though they probably don’t even know who Brittany is, which Santana thinks is a damn shame.

Santana sits there in the cold and gets more and more nervous as the minutes crept towards two o’clock, digging the toe of her boot into the snow and crushed ice beneath her and trying to ignore the fact that her phone now flashes _2:03_ at her when she hits the home button and there’s still no sign of blonde hair and a smile that could melt all the snow in the city.

She manages to ignore that fact until something settles heavily in her stomach like a ball of iron, she thinks it might be hurt, possibly the sudden deadweight of her heart sinking. She starts imagining all the ways Brittany could be delayed, like maybe she was working and that asshole businessman was yelling at her again, or maybe her cab broke down and she’s running over the tops of cars to try and get to the park, or maybe she was heroically stopping a mugging while helping an old lady cross the street, or maybe she got locked inside her apartment and is trying to wiggle out the window, or maybe she was racing down the sidewalk and fell down an open manhole and is now stuck in the sewers.

Once it passes two thirty, Santana knows it’s been too long and convinces herself that the tears that sting her eyes are really from the cold and not from the fact that it’s thirty-six minutes past when Brittany was supposed to be here and Santana kind of wishes the ground would just swallow her. 

She kind of hates herself for getting her hopes up because Brittany is pretty and brilliant and witty and dances better than anyone she’s ever seen even it it’s just behind the register to the faint strains of some old Motown song, and Santana kind of knows that, despite all of her wild imaginings, the fact is that Brittany just stood her up.

 

* * *

 

Brittany is running late. Or she’s running late according to the piece of cup in Santana’s pocket. She’s actually crazy early according to the note in her hand.

She strolls into the park and spots Santana by the burgundy scarf, and frowns in confusion when she realizes Santana’s walking away from her. “Santana!” she calls, her frown deepening and her stomach twisting when Santana’s entire body stiffens and shudders before she continues to hurry away.

Brittany’s really glad she opted for her boots over her sneakers because the sidewalk is really slippery when you’re shuffle-running after a girl. She catches up to Santana easily, and grabs her elbow gently, gasping at the look on Santana’s pretty features when she turns. She looks windswept and off-kilter, the tip of her nose and peak of her cheeks pink from the cold. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line, her lips wet and cracked in the cold air and her brow is drawn low, but it’s her eyes that make Brittany feel like something sharp just twisted below her sternum. They’re darker than usual, and brighter, but not in the lit from within way they usually get when Brittany makes a (admittedly, kind of dumb) joke just to get her to smile, but in the way that looks like she’s a second away from crumpling.

Santana looks so sad that something deep within Brittany’s chest positively _aches_.

“Santana?” she whispers, wondering what could possibly have happened to make Santana’s face fall like it has, and wishing more than anything that she could make it go away.

“Guess you finally decided to show up,” Santana snipes, except it’s all squished and watery like it was forced past her throat. 

Brittany’s heart thumps. “No! I mean— I mean, yes, but I’m— I’m early.”

Santana laughs through her nose and it’s nothing like the giggles Brittany knows from the café and it’s _awful_. “Your phone must be in a different timezone.”

“No! No, it isn’t,” Brittany promises earnestly, because she’s done that before and ended up being an hour late to every class in her first year during the first week and it was really confusing when she sat down in the classroom and expected calculus but ended up in a lecture about post-colonial literature. “I’m half an hour early,” she insists, and because Santana looks so hopeless and miserable and because Brittany’s chest is throbbing with the weight of all that sadness, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out Santana’s note, shoving at her. “See?” she whispers, and Santana’s face pinches together in confusion before her eyes dart up to look at Brittany. She hasn’t smiled since Brittany caught her by the elbow and Brittany is not sure that her heart can take it much longer if she doesn’t see those adorable dimples soon, but at least the hopeless look is clearing from Santana’s pretty eyes. Santana opens her mouth to speak and Brittany imagines all the things she might say, but what comes out of Santana’s mouth is definitely not anything that Brittany expected.

“That’s not my writing.”

Brittany swallows and glances at the note like it just grew a tail and a couple limbs right in her hand. “It— It’s not?” she asks, glancing at Santana and feeling something shift underneath her.

Santana shakes her head slowly and looks at the note thoughtfully, almost all of the pain and sadness gone from her face and replaced with dawning understanding. “No,” she says, her words careful, “but I’m pretty sure it’s Quinn trying to forge my writing. It’s not nearly smudged enough to be mine,” she explains, involuntarily twitching the fingers of her left hand.

Brittany already knows she’s left-handed, which would be super creepy in any other circumstance except Santana is always doing homework in the café and Brittany might just be a little obsessed with learning everything she can about Santana, so it’s totally okay and definitely not-creepy (probably, she thinks). She frowns and glances at the note in her hand. “Quinn’s your friend from the café right?”

Santana nods and pulls something out of her pocket, small and white and suspiciously curved. “I suppose this isn’t your writing either?” she asks, offering the thin cardboard to Brittany.

Brittany barely has to glance at it to realize what is going on. “Nope, but it’s probably Mercedes’ best imitation of mine.” She takes a deep breath and glances around the street. “I think your friend and my coworker tried to set us up,” she offers, forcing herself to meet Santana’s eyes, which are surprisingly clear and bright, all things considered.

“I think you might be right, Miss Smartypants,” Santana teases softly, and for the first time since she turned around earlier she smiles at Brittany, no traces of pain in her eyes anymore, her dimples creasing her cheeks and her eyes crinkling when her nose scrunches up. It makes warmth like liquid sunlight curl pleasantly in Brittany’s stomach, like her mom’s hot chocolate on a cold day, or like a freshly baked cookie right off the baking sheet, or like all of the good things in the world are hiding in Santana’s dimples.

“I think I am too,” she says, smiling back at Santana.

Santana gets that breathless look that Brittany thinks might be her absolute favourite look on anyone in the entire world, and her own breath gets caught in her chest when Santana breathes in sharply. “I think,” she starts, glancing all over Brittany’s face before settling on summer-sky eyes, “that I don’t mind all that much.”

“Yeah?” Brittany breathes.

Santana nods, slow and sure. “Yeah.” She gets a little caught up in staring at Brittany, but Brittany doesn’t really mind all that much since she’s kind of caught up in staring at Santana too. “I would have preferred if they had the decency to put down the right times though.”

Brittany pouts. “I’m really sorry,” she says earnestly, wondering what she would have done if she expected to meet Santana but Santana never showed up. The thought alone makes her chest ache painfully, but it eases into a sweeter sort of ache when Santana shakes her head gently at her.

“It’s not your fault,” Santana promises, her smile settling into something softer, adoring almost.

“Still,” Brittany insists, “Let me make it up to you.”

Santana shifts a little, her breath coming out sharply in a puff of white mist between them. “Oh yeah?”

Brittany nods quickly and grins as she shoves the note back into her pocket and grabs Santana’s hand, dragging her back the way she came. Santana trails after her, her breathing sharp and high as they cross the park, and Brittany belatedly realizes that she’s still holding Santana’s bare hand with her own, their fingers all hopelessly tangled together and skin warm despite the winter wind. She slows and glances at Santana, trying to gage her reaction and hoping it’s not awful. “Is this okay?” she mumbles, giving Santana’s fingers a squeeze and hoping she doesn’t pull away because holding Santana’s hand is kind of the best feeling in the world.

Santana’s face seems to be reddening even underneath all the pink from the cold. “It’s perfect,” she whispers, and the awe and wonder in her voice make Brittany’s chest flutter wildly like her heart is trying to escape.

Brittany beams, tightening her fingers around Santana’s. “Good, because I know a great café that serves everything but coffee.”

Santana giggles and lets herself be led off again, but Brittany keeps their pace leisurely this time. Brittany can feel Santana’s gaze on her, and she glances at her in question. Santana’s face is guarded but her eyes are wide and longing. “Is this a date, Britt?”

Something deep inside Brittany trembles and brightens at the nickname and the thought, Brittany thinks it might be her very soul waking up and curling itself towards Santana. “Do you want it to be a date?” she asks, even though it’s what she wants more than she’s wanted anything ever.

Santana nods carefully, and Brittany feels like she’s being lit from within, like someone finally found her cord and plugged it in and all the lights and warmth inside her are suddenly bright and open, like she had been in the dark all her life without even realizing it. Santana’s hand tingles in hers, and Brittany suspects that the someone who plugged her in is currently holding her hand and beaming up at her, bashful and awed, dimpled and bright.

“Then it’s a date,” Brittany whispers, and despite the winter wind pushing at them, Brittany’s never been warmer in her life. 

“A date,” Santana agrees, and she curls closer to Brittany like there’s no place in the world she would rather be. 

And maybe they kind of smile a little goofily and a little awed at each other as they walk, and maybe they get so caught up in staring at each other that they miss the café Brittany wanted to take Santana to completely, and maybe they get a little bit lost and end up wandering the city for hours, and maybe it’s kind of the best first date in the history of first dates ever, and maybe Brittany feels like her heart is melting out of her chest and down her arm to where her fingers are tangled with Santana’s, but Brittany is pretty sure it’s okay because Santana’s dark eyes are telling her that her heart is doing the exact same.


End file.
